


Monochromophobia

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A person with monophobia is scared of being alone. <br/>Monochrome is to consist of shades of only one colour. </p><p>Dave Strider is both of these.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

Your name is Dave Strider and you find yourself falling asleep in the lazy blaze of the early evening sunshine. You're aware that if it had been midday you would have burnt to a crisp by now, but that thought is swatted away like a mouse is pushed into its hole by a housewife. You kick your heels against the peeling paint of the wall, and feel it crumble like bread crumbs beneath the impact. You open your eyes for the sole purpose of watching the flakes meander to the ground several storeys below you. From this high up, the ground seems pinched, obscured by the grey angles of apartment buildings. The horizon's sketchy, wavering in the heat. 

As if to assist your heels, you absently tap the rubber foot of the red and white cane on the wall. It gives a pleasant rhythmic thud, and you continue. This and the far off cawing of birds are the only sounds that reach your ears. It's so quiet otherwise that you can almost imagine that light glaring off the metal railings is singing. It catches the corner of your eye like a diamond ring would the eye of a crow. 

You absently finger at the smooth surface of the bottom half of your iPhone's screen. It's something to touch, something to feel, and you're thankful of that because everything else is so numb and painless and it's nice to feel the pressure on the pad of your thumb, nice to feel the humid breeze on your face. You're trapped in time, preserved in amber, and for all you know you're suspended in this moment as if in air. There's no strings holding you up and no ropes tying you down.

You're free but you can't bring yourself to fly away.

You'd love to speak, but your throat feels sluggish and dry at once. It's paralysed by the gloopy resin that's dripping down from the back of your tongue. You settle for the words to be drawn across your shadowed irises. 

Wish you were here.

It's something you remember seeing on postcards, lined up on white wire racks outside souvenir shops. Fleeting memories of dreary seaside resorts dance through your mind and she's always there too. Smiling, laughing. Sometimes with chubby cheeks and clumsy digits, sometimes taller and slender and oddly graceful. Sometimes rounded, sometimes with sharp edges. Time-lapsed photographs, all with you and her but you can never make out your own face. It may be that you don't pay much attention to yourself, or that you paid a little too much attention to her. 

She was the kind of friend that you grow up with and feel that you can let go at times. Sure, they had drifted apart; not because of fights, just because they wanted a change. She went with the angry short guy and the lanky nerd, you wandered off with John and Jade and Rose. But as if your pinkie fingers were tied together with a length of red cotton, you would always find your way back to each other. To you it's always been something inexplicable; you're cool, calm, a bit of a dick, and she was eccentric and quirky and overly friendly. Rose had always been baffled by your relationship, but your liability to take jabs at each other proved the strength of the bond.

But it was at our closest that it all fell apart.

It was something you hadn't seen coming. In your defence, you're not psychic, and your eyes were closed. You remember a faithful Clementine sunset, a swap of sunny smiles. A whitewashed cliff and green iron park bench. Pinkish slabs of granite tell a story of a thousand footfalls below you, and untied shoelaces cast snakelike shadows on the pages. She had her pixiesque nose pointed towards her spagnola ice cream that was balanced quite precariously on a dripping wafer cone and kept sending fond glances towards the side of your head. There was a returned smile. There was the anxious cry of a gull above your heads.

There was a scream of tires, the whining of an out of control engine. Her eyes barely had the chance to widen before you were both flung head over heels from the ledge. Her mouth was open wide but no cry registered in your ears. Just the rushing of wind and air resistance and the sounds of crisped autumn leaves flashing past you.

Falling, really falling, is a beautiful thing. It's quiet, it's peaceful, and you come to accept the consequences before you land because of this. From the top of the cliff, the ground below had looked soft, consisting majorly of loosely growing patches of chive like grass and fresh flowerbeds, but suddenly now it seemed hard and cold and unforgiving and you dreaded the impact; but you also anticipated it. You can only spend so long suspended in air as you were. 

Falling's like the moment before death. And, in a sense, it was.

For her.

The driver of the car was arrested for careless driving and manslaughter due to gross negligence. You remember feeling a forlorn smile creep onto your lips during the trial at how exciting she would have found it. But unfortunately she died on the evening of the 16th September. She didn't make it past A&E. You were patched up; they kept an eye on you for a few days, and so did Bro, and you suffered but it was more emotional than anything.

_It could have been me._

_No, it should have been me._

_She should be here._

_I should be dead._

Now you're alone with your memories and your scars. Since the incident you've found yourself with multiple ivory marks on your already pale skin-at first they were a plum colour, as if bruised, but gradually they faded- randomly occurring migraines and partial blindness in your left eye. None of this greatly affects you, but you know it might affect others. You spend your time not letting anyone notice, and not letting anyone ask about her. Sure, people noticed when she just stopped coming to school, and for months after the accident you were forced to live with mumblings and rumours following you through the corridors. You refused the friendship of John and Rose and Jade. All you really wanted was for her to be okay, for her to come back.

You don't ask for much. At least, you don't think so. But if there's one thing you want more than anything else it's for her to be alive again. You want to hear her manic laugh in science class, you want to be able to spot her in the mornings solely by her colourful clothes. You want her to appear by your side on the evening of September 16th one year, when you faithfully return with a fresh bunch of red tulips, dusted with the cinnamon colour of the fading sunlight, and tell you that it's all been some prank gone wrong or some elaborate dream. You want her to smile at you, you want to laugh at her and with her and oh god you just want her to come back and be okay more than anything in this godforsaken world.

Her grave is tear provokingly picturesque. It's situated on that same cliff, a metre or two from the edge. The headstone is a pale grey marble, and the engraving is gilded. When the sun sets, as it had on the evening of the accident, strong and tangerine, the stone casts a beautiful long shadow across the top of the cliff. Just before the light fades, the top of the shadow touches the place where Terezi had sat on the bench. A golden plaque had been installed into the object, stating the date of her death and how she would be forever remembered. Knowing that none of the wardens would take the time to polish it, you take monthly outings to that spot to clean it. Other than that, and the yearly visit on the 16th September (which you try to work into the monthly visits anyway) you don't go there. You hole yourself up inside. Bro has most definitely noticed a change in your behaviour but he doesn't mention it. The last thing he wants to do is to make you cry because you're a Strider and that would be wrong.

_The only time a Strider can cry is when it's all over._

Sure, you've cried. You've cried bucketloads of tears since she died, mainly in the first fortnight. You didn't let anyone see, but you cried. Her parents took pity on how you were clearly trying your hardest to keep a straight face at the funeral. But even though it's been nearly three years, you'll still cry every now and again. You lock yourself away and curl up and cry. It feels natural, and it's like you're letting everything out. You're a bottle of Faygo- ironic shit that it is- all shaken up and ready to blow.

You look up. While you were caught in your reminiscing, the amber encasing you had melted away and the sun had set. The curtain call of katydids and locusts swathes the city and you close your eyes and listen to them. Goosebumps are standing upright on your forearms and you can feel them where the breeze laps at your neck. The time display on your iPhone's lock screen shows 00:12. Your shoulders droop and you take one last wistful glance at the stars, which are as ever battling their way through the smog. You appreciate their efforts and take a moment to admire the vague winking they give.

It is once again September 16th and you, Dave Strider, have a job to do.


	2. 2

Whenever you arrive, it's almost like the cliff is beckoning you, welcoming you back. It's like it knows that while it's not your house, it's still your home. Home is where the heart is, they say, and your heart is three years lost beneath twenty inches of compact soil. She took it when you fell. You appropriated her smile and her memory at the same instant. Just in case only one of you survived. Just in case. 

The tops of the curling leaves are dipped in a waxy orange, and lazy shadows quiver on the grass, which is shiny and makes small ghostly twitching movements in the breeze. The bench is there. The cliff is there. The stone still stands like a soldier to attention on the brink. There's a scattering of medium sized stones at the foot of it. Three of them, 2009, 10 and 11. They lie in a precise triangular formation and you're oddly reminded of eggs in a bird's nest. The small backpack hung lazily over your right shoulder contains another, for 2012, a sunny yellow polishing cloth you found in the bleach scented cupboard under the sink and a red crayon. The latter is here because of a conversation started by your bro as a feeble attempt to cheer you up, involving laying an art product on her grave with the flowers. You didn't take it as a joke. For four years you've been buying a twelve pack of Crayola wax crayons and throwing them all away but the red one. 

You carry the flowers in your hand. It would be wrong to stuff them into the bag. They're red and the waviness of the petals almost makes them feel artificial, which they're not. They're not man made, they're just perfect. Now is one of the many times in your life that you chose for shades to be your coolkid trademark instead of rings or bowties. Or any other shit. Because neither of those things hide your face like the shades do (unless you covered your eyes with them, which would be fucking stupid) and although there's clearly tears trailing below the rims, you like to think that nobody would ever know.

But since the incident, you haven't seen a single soul on this cliff. Maybe they don't want the same to happen to them, maybe they don't want to come across the quiet, mourning teenage boy with his knees in the mud and his heart covered in soil at his feet, broken cleanly in two. The bigger side has been nudged closer to the stone. It's not accepted.

You're not expected to get over her. Not by your friends, not by bro, not even in your own eyes. Even in your own eyes, you're breaking more and more with each visit.

You can feel them giving up on you. They're slipping, they're fading, they're going, they're going, 

they're  
gone

Or maybe it's just you. That's something that's struck you as possible in the recent months. Maybe you're slipping. They're distorted, as if you're looking at them from beneath water. You're drowning and you can't breathe and John and Bro and Rose and Jade are looking at you and staring and oh god they don't care do they and all you can do

all you can do

is scream and tell them that no, you don't want to sleep with the fishes you want to go up there, where Terezi is but the can't hear you or they don't listen or they just don't care.

And the thing that scares you is that you think you can see a hint of a smile hidden in John's overbite.

It scares you so much.

You let the grey rock-which is smooth and speckled and about as big as your loosely closed fist (and, from what you've heard, your heart, which is chokingly deep to you)- rest into the nest that the other three have created. It's like a pyramid now. Four stones, four fists, four hearts.

You cross your legs and fall back onto your rear in the grass. You can feel the dew soak up into the seat of your pants but that's the least of your worries. Walking home with a damp ass is not something you tend to get worked up about, especially not now. Even though in retrospect, you've had quite a good life, you feel like you've seen it all, felt all the pain, and that after all of that nothing can possibly bring you down further.

You feel wrongly.

Because it's the yearly visits to the gravesite that bring you down further. It's the twang in your chest when someone says her name. It's how obvious and harrowing her absence is when you're lonely and simply want someone to talk to. It's her not being there. 

The sunlight is crisp and gives a nice, bold shadow. Of you, of the stone, of the bench. You prod yourself to remember to polish the plaque. When you prop yourself onto one knee, about to stand, you feel a hand on your shoulder. It's brief, cold, impossibly gentle. You quickly whip around, eyes searching the vegetation for any signs of human life. You come to the conclusion that it was the wind and get back to your business of caring and noticing. 

But there it is again. No shadow, no sound, no warmth. Annoyance boils like vomit in the back of your throat and you swallow thickly. You'll feel stupid if you sound any sort of greeting to whatever might be with you, so you keep your tongue firmly plastered to the roof of your mouth. 

It doesn't come again. Not until you leave. You dust the plaque in silence, pausing to spit on the cloth a couple of times to give a bit of a personal shine. You can see your face in it by the time you're done, hollow shades blocking your eyes. You like that. Hollow. Hiding the fullness behind them. 

Before you leave, you take one last glance around. The cliff top is immortalised in your memory, but you know that to the eyes of anyone else it's deteriorating. It was once a picturesque spot that boasted views over the city and the trees and the shiny beetles of cars that trundled across the tangled wool of the roads. But you can see rust cracking the surface of the beach and rot creeping into the trunks of trees. The grass is overgrown and woven with dandelions and stinging nettles. It tickles at your ankles, slithers up your legs. 

You shudder when you see the sunset. Something seems different about it, something you can't quite pit your finger on. It's still a faithful, bold tangerine colour and it's still bathing the eroded tips of the hills in a sprinkling of warm light. They're like cupcakes dusted with sierra icing, laid out in uncontrolled random rows as far as you can see. 

But there's something different about it. Definitely. You're not in the mood to be argued with. Even after three years, you feel your throat constricting and the corners of your mouth tugging themselves downward. You cast a glance to the stone, and it's like a spell, cutting your ties for the year. 

Or not.

Even though you've laid the flowers, said your words ("hey, Tz. How're you doing down there? Things are shit without you. No change there. Not for three years." you could barely speak without choking on barely stifled sobs) and planted the pebble into its little nest, you can't help but feel that you're missing something.

Admittedly, you know you were missing something. But now it's like you're missing something else;

something besides her.

It's a kind of sick feeling, bubbling and boiling in the back of your throat- which is hoarse and parched with hot, unshed tears. You narrow your eyes into the waning sunlight and sit on the bench, waiting for the sensation to subside. 

It doesn't.

Not until you find yourself sitting in the dark once again. It seems to be a common thing with you at the moment. Maybe it's because you're a night owl, which, while it would be new information to you, it wouldn't be surprising. You're forever falling asleep in classes, especially the ones you used to sit in with Terezi. Her bubbly, manic personality used to keep you entertained, whereas now the absence is making everything that much more numbingly boring. 

As you stand up, gather your bag and stretch because sitting still for that long is just not something you do, the world seems colder. You're not sure if it's the night, or the wind, but it makes you shiver, once, but then you move on. 

At the opening to the cliff top, there's a cluster of trees. You notice a figure standing, silhouetted, underneath one. 

Your first notion is that it's bro, here with a lift home. Or to give you one of his characteristically useless telling-offs for being late.

But it's not.

That's fairly obvious.

It's a girl. Of normal height for a teenager, about your age, you wager, and lanky. Hair that reaches to just above her shoulders,

 _It's not bro,_ you think. _It's definitely not bro._


	3. 3

You're not sure what happens next. Your consciousness for the next few moments narrows and weakens because you're focusing all your energy on figuring out just what the hell is going on here. It's her, all right. She has her hand on her left hip and her expression is all lopsided, sharp-toothed grin. 

She's smiling at you. She's laughing at your expression. She's not explaining, she's not consoling you. It's almost as if she's been here all along and she's jesting at the fact that you've only just noticed her. You've woken up and she's welcoming you back.

It's one of those moments where you can't decide whether to hug her or punch her. She just looks so fucking smug that you can't take it, you don't want to take that sort of shut from someone who left you alone to mourn for so long. It's her fault, you know, but for some reason you can't bring yourself to be angry at her.

You look at her. You're about to snap at her.

Then you really look.

And you nearly stumble off the cliff.

She's shimmering, like the scales of fish or opalescent butterfly wings. Her fingers and the wispy ends of her glowing ember hair are static, buzzing in and out of view. Her eyes are the same, though. A pale blue, like the sky in winter. Her clothes are plain- a pair of jeans and a red t-shirt- but untarnished.

She laughs.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

You realize you were staring at her eyes with your jaw almost on your chest, lost in the soft blue. She's not here, you think, this isn't happening. You spend the next ninety three seconds gathering your emotions up and trying to convince yourself that you fell asleep on the bench.

But that didn't explain the hand on your shoulder, it didn't explain the sick feeling.

I haven't slept in two days. I could be hallucinating.

Her smile falters, then disappears. "Dave? Are you okay? I didn't mean to scare you."

"Dave." 

"Dave, look at me."

You don't. You don't look at her. You look at your feet, at the grass, at the little collections of dirt created by earthworms, anything but her, her eyes. Because if you look at her too much, you might start getting your hopes up and you might start believing that she's actually there because she's so solid-save for the static in her fingers- and just so in front of you that it's really hard to ignore the fact that to you, at this moment in time, Terezi Pyrope seems pretty fucking alive.

But she's not. You saw her fall. She fell with you.

She fell down that cliff.

Slowly, she approaches you. You can't help but look up and notice that when she moves the shimmer becomes more noticeable. It's like she's a hologram, sometime in the future. And in your head, this is what it is. Someone has turned your dead best friend into a hologram just to fuck with your head.

This makes you angry.

You decide to show it.

It's very unlike you to get this worked up, but hey, when anyone's been messed with this much they tend to get a little pissed. You don't like this one bit; you find yourself looking into the trees on either side of you, into the shadows, checking if there was any Wizard of Oz shit going on back there. 

There isn't anyone. Not as far as you can see.

"Te..." You stop yourself. There is no way that you are going to call whatever this shit is by the name of your friend. This is not Terezi.

"What the fuck is this all about?" Despite your anger, you manage to keep your voice low. Nothing stirs at the sound, not even the small bird sorting through the leaves a couple of feet to your left. "Who's behind this?"

Terezi-fake's smile (or shit-eating grin) lingers, but something shifts in her eyes. They suddenly seem confused, hurt. You don't let it affect you, not on the outside. On the inside, though, the small part of you that still believes is screaming.

"What are you talking about?"

While her appearance is crackling and flawed, you can't help but notice how real and smooth her voice is.

"Nobody has to be behind this."

She seems to latch onto your thoughts. She knows what you're talking about and her expression simply becomes wounded. Her eyebrows are drawn together, her lips set into a thin, stubborn line. 

"This is natural, Dave, can't you see?"

Can't you?

She's close enough, now, that you can hear her breathing. Which strikes you as odd, seeing as a hologram wouldn't need to breathe.

But a ghost wouldn't, either.

The sun's gone, now. All that you can see by is the faint glow she's giving off, and the faraway lights of the city behind you. It's creepy, and it sends shivers down your spine; you try to walk away, to run home, but to your- slight- dismay, you find your feet are rooted to the ground with a sticky concoction of curiosity, fear and mud. 

"What are you?"

"Dead." 'Terezi' replies with a brief shrug of her shoulders. Her expression and general attitude is nonchalant, as if this whole thing is no big deal. No, not life changing in the slightest, I just popped over from the great beyond to say hi. She allowed herself a tiny smile as she imagined what her mortal friend would probably say in the future in regards to their meeting. "I'm dead."

"Yeah, and so how are you here?" You're trying so hard to keep the tremor out of your voice. This is a different type of fear. It's not a fear of ghosts, not of the dark, not of whatever might be lurking in the trees. 

You don't want her to go. You're talking, asking her questions, in the same way that someone would talk to a person with concussion to keep them awake. Ghost or hologram or memory she might be, but at least she's here, at least you're talking to her. She might not be alive, as she had clearly stated, but she's standing in front of you.

So she must be, a little bit.

_You took my heart._

You're slowly coming around to the fact that yes, this is a ghost. Yes, this person is dead and will never be alive again but yes, this person is a ghost.

"We're linked, Dave." She doesn't let you finish your question. You were intending to add a witty, funny quip at the end, the icing on the cake, but your mind is a blank. You're not yourself right now.

_I appropriated your smile and your memory in return._

"I'm tied to you."

_That's why._

_There's a little bit of you in me._


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! i'm just here to let you know that i'm thankful to anyone who's reading this, and that you're all awesome. also, i track the tag 'monochromophobia' on tumblr; just a heads up here. i wrote the first three chapters a while ago now, when i first signed up for an invite, but this chapter has been written yesterday. it's not the best, but i'll post it anyway!

You didn't want to have to leave her alone. But the threat of her fucking things up at school would always be too heavy on your shoulders, even if you do pretend to trust her. You're in class, with your fists scrunched up and your eyes locked dead ahead of you, simply hoping that she hasn't fucked things up at home either. 

Bro doesn't know about her yet, and you acknowledge that as a mistake. If he discovers her for whatever reason, things could go downhill, fast.

Well, not literally downhill, because it's more than likely that whatever happens will escalate to the rooftop.

The next time you check the clock on the wall, it's to the realisation that there's only a minute until the bell, and that John is looking at you. You have no idea how long he's been like that, but his face is plastered with an infuriating half smile that makes you want to leap across the room and throttle him. But, ever the cool kid, you refrain; and simply give him a bitter, mocking grimace of a smile in return.

After class, he slaps you on the back while you're getting your shit out of your locker. He's never really known how to politely get your attention.

"Hey, Dave!" 

"Yo." you grunt in greeting, shoving the last of your books into your bag before swinging it round onto your back. John is unfazed by your unenthusiastic response, and continues to blabber on to you.

"What was up in class, dude? You were completely spaced out!"

You choose not to reply to that. Clearly John has overlooked what day it is and while you're happy that you even have ghost-Tz you're also hella stressed about it and you would just prefer if nobody talked to you.

If only it was as simple to tell John that as it was to tell yourself.

But you decide to give it a go anyway.

"Look, John. You're my friends and I need to tell you something, okay?" You glance at him over the top of your shades. "Be a good boy and don't tell anyone, right?"

John seems to squirm a little inside, apparently uncomfortable with you entrusting him with such a secret. "Sure, man."

You fall silent and steer the both of you towards a vacant table in the corner of the cafeteria. You sit with your back to the rest of the room, and John perches on the bench opposite, listening eagerly.

"I saw Terezi yesterday."

His jaw drops.

"What the fuck?"

You search his eyes. He seems legitimately shocked, yet there's a hunger in them that indicates he wants to hear more.

"She's back, John. She's in my house."

John slings his bag back onto his shoulder. "That's stupid. She's dead."

You flinch at that. Like you needed to be reminded. "That she is."

Then John's eyes widen a little, in wonder. 

"Woah."

You nod. "She's a ghost. Believe me any more now?"

John leans into you, his tone dropping. His fists clench excitedly. 

"You've got a real live ghost in your apartment? This is something I have _got_ to see!"

You shift uncomfortably. "I don't know man. If you're going to do your creepy ecto ghost shit to her then you can just back off."

John raises his voice in defence, and you gesture for him to be quiet. "I'm not going to! Besides, she's a good ghost, I guess, and she knows me, so I won't need to try to communicate with her!"

You just look at your feet. 

"John. I don't think you'll be able to see her."

John looks crestfallen. "Why? Is your bro suddenly being more strict about visitors? Doesn't he like me?"

"No, no. It's not that. It's just-" You shake your head, unable to explain. "You know, like, how ghosts can be anchored to somebody?"

John nods earnestly.

"Well, this is just a theory, but I think she was kinda attatched to me when we fell." You give a one shouldered shrug. John gets out a packet of Doritos and watches you intently.

"Are you just trying to tell me that you've gone crazy, Dave?"

Your heart sinks, because your only lifeboat has sailed away. You were certain that John of all people would believe you, but now he doesn't then you haven't got a hope. And you aren't about to go around telling the whole school about Terezi because they'll think you're crazy too.

"Oh, so you don't believe me."

You slump slightly, shaking your head, but then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a smile.

"John, you fucking prick."

He laughs as you reach across the table to him, trying to get a good hold of his neck. You're laughing too and he's holding his chips out of reach so you can't knock them over (which you appreciate would be a terrible event).

The bell rings and there's a wave of movement along the cafeteria. John pours the crumbs into his mouth and slams the packet into the bin behind him. 

When you're walking to class, he ruffles your hair, still grinning.

"Of course I believe you, Dave." he says confidently. "We're bros and bros trust each other."

You shove him, and he takes that as a silent means of thanks, which it is. He wiggles his fingers at you and makes a ghostly _'ooooo'_ ing noise, which simply earns him another push.

In class, your mind process ricochetes back to thoughts of Terezi.


	5. 5

The rest of the day passes by smoothly. John doesn't mention Terezi again, though you can see that he's still eager to talk you into letting him meet her. You're still a little unsure on that; the last thing you want is for her to feel like she's an animal in a zoo. She may usually hide her emotions, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have any.

You want to make her death as comfortable as possible.

The five of you- you, John, Jade, Kanaya and Rose- sit at the normal bench outside. Kanaya and Rose are immersed in yet another book- it's a classic romance today, Kanaya's choice- and Jade is as cheerful as ever. She fills you in on affairs at the Harley household; what a good dog Bequerel still is; what a pain her grandpa has been. You smile and pretend to listen.

A group of people walk past. Kanaya smiles at three of them, overlooks another, and glares for a split second at the last. You turn around to look at them. 

"Hey, Vriska!"

John waves, and the tall girl with the long bleach blonde hair waves back at him. The thin, lanky guy keeps on walking ahead. You know he doesn't like mixing with people he doesn't know well. Kanaya glares at the tallest guy before returning to her book. 

They're just passing by, and you let them walk without talking to them. But one of the guys- pretty average in size, with mid brown hair and wearing a sweater even though it's sunny- turns to look at you. It's not just a glance; it's held for a respectable time, and it has meaning.

You know his name. It's Karkat Vantas. You hardly speak to him- you're two of those guys who are just so similar that you can't help but hate each other- but you know he was one of Terezi's friends.

And you begin to think.

What if he knows something?

What if he knows about the ghost and is jealous that she's linked to you?

You let the thoughts slide, but not without them catching in your throat. They're still a little bit there.

You just hope that Terezi hasn't fucked things up more for you.

You arrive at the apartment to chaos. Admittedly, it's less chaos than you'd anticipated, but it's still chaos.

Bro's in the living room, bouncing on the balls of his feet and wielding a slightly less shitty sword than usual.

"Bro, I know you said you wanted to do this place up but tearing it down first is a no no." you scold him. He spins to look at you.

"Hey, boss." You cringe. He doesn't hold eye contact with you for long enough to see, however, and before you can even blink he's scanning the walls for something, holding up the sword in both hands. You can't help but observe that there are a couple of bro height scratches in the wall and that there's stuffing on top of the television.

"Could you stop looking like a complete prick for long enough to tell me what the fuck you're doing, maybe?" you snap. You're sure that there was more concern in your voice than you intended, but you don't care. 

Bro lowers the sword again and you can see his eyes narrow behind his shades. "Hey, now, little man. I didn't go around asking for that kind of address. Who's got your pretty little panties in a twist?" Usually, he would jokingly scold you for using such a tone towards him, but now he seems almost cautious, not wanting to provoke you further.

"Let's just put the fucking sword down and stop trying to turn the apartment into a shitty tetris game, okay?"

Bro does as you say, but he's still standing tall, holding himself above you. He's suspicious of you and you know that; and you're trying to keep yourself as neutral as possible, trying to seem like a kid who just did not want to walk in on his guardian tearing their living quarters apart.

You have long realised that you're failing at that, but you don't care.

He sits down on the sofa. There's a neat slice on the armrest, but it's otherwise unscathed. 

"Look, man. I know you're gonna call me crazy but-"

"There's a ghost in here and you were trying to cut it in half, right?" you interject. "Look, bro. You're a smart guy. Surely you would know that _is not how ghosts work._ They don't slice, you asswipe."

His gaze on you is suddenly steely. "How the fuck did you know about that ghost."

You are in a no bullshit mood. 

So you don't bullshit.

"It's Terezi."

Bro cocks an eyebrow.

"You're kidding." 

"Do I fucking look like I'm kidding bro. Do I need to take that sword and turn you into the amount of slices of bro that represents how much I'm kidding."

He mutely shakes his head.

"How long has this been a thing?"

You stare blankly out of the window. The afternoon haze has settled neatly on top of the other buildings, a sweet honey gold, and distorted like static. 

"Since yesterday." 

Bro relaxes, and seems to deflate a little. A silent sigh escapes him.

"Well, can you tell your best friend to stop fucking around and sit in one place."

You look sideways at him, a smirk stretching your lips.

"Man, if I couldn't do that when she was alive, then I definitely can't do it now."


	6. Chapter 6

It doesn’t take you long to track her down. She’s sitting on your bed with a wolfish grin and what looks like a piece of red felt tucked under her arm. You come to the conclusion that it’s from one of the smuppets that bro had inevitably torn apart.

 _’I told you, if you’re gonna leave them lying around, then they’re going to get their guts ripped out.’_ you had told him once. He had promptly told you that he didn’t give a fuck.

She looks like she’s expecting a friendly greeting, perhaps a bit of banter. Instead, you come straight out with it.

“I’m taking you to school with me tomorrow.”

She looks conflicted for a moment, and concern flashes across her rockpool eyes. 

“Why?” she asks obliviously, swinging her legs and tugging on the red fabric. Her lips are fixed into a very slight pout, and her eyes are locked on you.

You almost lose yourself.

“Why the fuck do you think? I can’t just leave you here letting you be discovered by a new person every day!”

“There’s only one other person living here, and _he’s_ already found me.” she said pointedly. You raise your tone and you can see a few shimmers pass over her form, the portrayal of some sort of emotion. “Besides, there’s more chance of more people discovering me if I come to school with you. Think, Dave.”

“What if you got out?” you ask hurriedly. You don’t want to be having this conversation, so you’re putting in everything you have to say as soon as you can. “What if some voodoo dude found you and did magic tricks on you and shit? I don’t want anyone to make you disappear, Tz.”

“I won’t get out.”

“Likely story.”

Another wave of static. It’s almost like she’s shivering. She looks up at you, her eyes that same colour of hurt as they were yesterday.

“You don’t trust me, do you.”

Something in you pulls.

“Not after today.”

And breaks.

You sit on the bed next to her. Her shoulders slump and she looks down at her feet, her fringe hanging in front of her eyes at the angle. She seems hollow. Something’s different about her in this form, and has been since you first saw her, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. Maybe she saw something, after or during you fell. Maybe it was already decided that she would be the one to die before you hit the ground, and in the air she died and went through heaven and hell and now she’s here.

She’s here and you feel like you’re treating her like shit.

You put an arm over her shoulder. It’s a weird sensation; she’s solid, but not, and it’s like holding the wind in your fist. She leans into you.

“I’m sorry. I messed up.” she says eventually. Her voice is soft, quiet. 

“No, shut up. I’m sorry. Look, you’re right. You won’t go outside if you know what’s good for you, right?” You look over to her for confirmation. She nods. “At least, you won’t let yourself get discovered by just anyone. Only people I’ve told you are okay, yeah?”

She sits up straighter, eyeing you.

“You only have to come with me if you don’t think you can trust yourself with staying here.” 

She looks down, thinking. Her brow creases slightly.

You can tell she trusts herself. She probably wants to stay here as much as you want her to stay. 

“I’ll come.”

You’re secretly relieved. As long as she’s with you, you’re convinced she’ll be okay. Which is probably very, _very_ wrong, but you actually don’t give a shit. She’s here for now and you’re trying your best to preserve her.

You vow to yourself to keep a close guard on her for the time that she’s with you. If she were to go missing in the corridors you’re not sure what you would do. Search for her, yes, but you’re not sure to what extent. You don’t think you could get away with walking through the school calling her name, and you’re sure that even looking around would be out of the question. You’d get caught. People would think you’ve cracked. You wouldn’t get into trouble, you know that much, but you’d be noticed.

And you know you haven’t cracked because bro’s seen her too (which you’re not actually sure of, but at least he’s heard her and acknowledged her presence) and that makes everything alright because bro’s the sanest fucking guy on earth. Obviously.

“I trust you, Terezi. You’re my best friend and I should trust you.”

After three years of her not being here, she’s still your best friend.

Because that’s how best friends work.

You both leave the room and bro’s in the shower. You can hear the water running and him singing. You’re never sure what, exactly, he sings, but all you know is that he saves the sick beats for when somebody can hear him. Singing is only for showertime in the Strider household.

Terezi practically dives on the remote. You guess even ghosts get bored. She flicks through the channels for a while, and the only noise in the room is that of a few frames of sound from every show. 

You hear the shower switch off, and bro wanders past the open doorway with a towel wrapped around his waist. 

“Neat.” he comments, pointing for a second to Terezi’s hand- the one that’s still holding up the remote-and nodding. 

“What, that I’m watching TV?” she says blankly, turning to look at him. He seems unfazed. It takes you longer than it probably should to realise that he hasn’t heard her. He walks away without another word.

Terezi looks miffed. You shrug and turn back to the TV. She’s stopped on an annoying chat show, and you doubt it’s on purpose. 

“I don’t think he can see you.”

She nods and changes channels a few more times until she stops again on a rerun of Law & Order, which seems to please her. She sits back while you try to get the remote back.

“Hey! Girls get priority!”

“ _Girls_ might, but _you_ don’t.”

She laughs and holds the remote over the arm of the sofa. “Well, sucks for you.”

You punch her arm jokingly, and notice again how her surface crackles under any contact. 

The two of you spent a few minutes in silence. You can’t bear to do this, not when you’ve spent years apart. You feel that every second that passes without you talking about things is a second wasted, which you know is unlike you.

“I saw Karkat today.”

This seems to pique Terezi’s attention, and she mutes the TV. “Really? What did you say to him?”

“Nothing.” you say dismissively with a shrug of your shoulders. Terezi slumps and watches the mute characters interact on the flashing screen. You do the same and try to pretend that you understand what is going on. Terezi, you wager, has seen this episode before. 

“But he did give me a really funny look.” Terezi gives you a faint mmhmm in response, and you continue. Her eyes are following the shapes on the screen but you can tell she’s listening to you, because she hasn’t turned up the volume again yet. “Like he knew something. You don’t think he does, do you?”

Terezi remains in obstinate silence. She sits up a little, still not looking at you.

“Are you sure you haven’t been in contact with him?”

She gives in then. Her shoulders slump and she bows her head, looking up at you with static blue eyes. “He was a good friend of mine, Dave. I couldn’t just not let him know.”

You raise your eyebrows. “So you did talk to him.”

She nods.

You never knew Karkat Vantas very well. He’s an angry shouty kid in your year, with a past of getting into fights; even though he’s not actually violent. He was a good friend of Terezi’s, as she had said, but you’ve only spoken to him on a couple of choice occasions, which were incidences of major character clashing, resulting in a shouting match on his side of things and a calm acceptance (with a side of smugness) on yours. 

You remember Terezi saying something about being so similar that you’re practically polar opposites.

“On your laptop, while you were away today. He replied to me. Told me to fuck off a few times.” She giggles. “But then I told him it was me, and not you.

“He was silent for a while. I had to imagine what it would be like for him, trying to hide everything he could have been feeling from people when he was in the middle of a lesson. But, in the end, he replied.

“ _‘I have to go to lunch now. I’ll fry Strider’s sorry ass sometime later.’_ ”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god i'm sorry this chapter is so short

You remember that it was a dreary day, with mist bouncing from the tiles on the rooftops and the sun barely fighting through it. You reassure yourself, and bro, that the weather will clear up by noon.

Clad in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt adorned with a motif you can’t remember, you look back on those days and realise how little you’ve changed; sometimes you smile at this, sometimes you don’t. Your eyes are obscured behind a pair of dark, angular shades, courtesy of none other than your favourite (and only) big brother. You remember telling him that you would prefer to wear them than be questioned about your red eyes by fellow students.

You’re lucky. A decently sized group of your friends from your grade school are coming to the same middle school as you; and you don’t want to choose to hang with anyone but the usual suspects. What makes you happiest is that your best friend will be there too. 

When bro wishes you good luck, you wave it away in the way that only a cool kid can. Your path meets with a few others on the way, and by the time you reach the gates you’ve got John, Jade and Vriska (who holds onto John’s arm into a suspiciously flirty way) tagging along too. 

The school isn’t as imposing as you’d imagined it would be. Sure, you’ve seen it before; a squat, grey building, with wide windows, which sits three storeys above the ground. The main building is a perfect cuboid, with smaller blocks positioned here and there, seemingly randomly dotted about the grounds.

Together, the three of you enter the gates. Vriska flips her hair over her shoulder and releases John’s arm to take the lead, sniffing the air disdainfully. 

“Smells of shit.” she announces, then walks off in her own direction. John makes no move to follow.

“New school, same Vriska.” you hear Jade mutter, just loud enough to indicate that it was meant to be heard. You give a soft snort of laughter, watching her saunter away. She approaches another group- a few members of which you can recognise from your old school. Tavros Nitram and Sollux Captor (who you were friends with for a while, until the cool kid competition just got too much to handle) stand out to you. You can just about hear her shouting a cocky greeting to them.

“Never liked that bitch.” someone says from around the corner. Leaning against one of the three walls of the bike shed, near the entrance, is a face you recognise very well.

“Hey, Terezi!” Jade jumps in before you get the chance to even wave lazily at her. You’ve met up throughout the summer, a few times a week, and so you’re not too excited to see her. There are a few reunions to be had, after weeks of little to no contact, and another one of them is entering the school a few minutes later than you, deep in conversation.

“Yo, Rose. We’re over here.”

After not too long, the bell rings. With sighs of discontent, you part ways, some of you coupling up and going to classes together. You and Terezi are one of such couples. She bounces up behind you.

You make eye contact with her as she pulls up next to you, and she smiles. You return the favour, only very slightly at first, but by the end you’re laughing quietly amongst yourselves, from many a silent joke shared in the gaze.

 _New year,_ you think, _same old Terezi._

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are completely unsuspecting as to what happens next.


	8. 8.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one took so long! i'm also working on doll's haus, so updates may be a little slower. i changed my writing style ever so slightly, too, like halfway through writing it. hahaha  
> ha...

The sun rises upon the Strider household with good meaning, rays flitting through the windows at the speed of, well, light. Terezi, you have noticed, doesn’t sleep. At all. Which would make sense, even without considering that ghosts don’t need to sleep; seeing as she barely slept when she was alive. She spent late nights gaming and messaging but she never seemed tired.

She watches you as you get ready for school, having to be reminded to leave the room when you are showering and getting changed. With the ends of your hair still damp and sleep still in your eyes, you endeavour to summon enough energy to leave the house. Bro dismisses you with a casual wave of the hand.

Outside it is a bright day, laced with the first impressions of a chill in the air. The scatterings of fellow students making their way don’t notice Terezi, which shoots down the sliver of doubt within you. It bleeds to death while you sigh in relief.

It is only when you arrive that you think to check the time. It is early, about quarter of an hour before the first bell, which explains why the students weaving in and out of the buildings like confused flies are so few and far between. 

You decide, being awake enough to do so now with the cooling breeze on your face, to speak to Terezi as little as you possibly can. You try to think of a way to tell her this so that she won’t seem offended.

But with all the misery she’s given you for the past couple of years by fucking dying on you, you suppose that a day of cruelty can’t hurt.

You spend the next ten minutes standing in silence by the bike sheds, playing an assortment of mind numbing games on your phone. You get so immersed that when someone finally does arrive to greet you, you nearly drop the appliance.

Rose is standing in the path of your sunlight, in all her gothic glory. 

“Why so jumpy, Strider?”

A hint of a smile crosses her dark lips like barbed wire.

You slip the phone into your pocket cautiously and pay her your full attention. Terezi watches her carefully, stepping back a little. She is clearly unused to confrontation by anyone besides you and you can suddenly – kind of – understand why she freaked out when bro found her.

For a moment, you swear that her eyes flit up to where Terezi is, beside you. And for a moment, it’s like someone has plunged their fist into your chest and squeezed your heart a little.

However, she doesn’t bring it up.

But this is Rose Lalonde you’re talking about, and you know that she doesn’t always mention things, especially if she thinks she might be able to use those things to her advantage later on. 

So the dread still lingers, numbed only slightly by the resonating reassurance that you’re the only one who can see her.  
Or at least, that’s what you think. 

“Calm down. I’m only here to say good morning.”

_Likely fucking story._

You play along anyway, hiding your suspicions.

“Good morning, Rose,” you say in a monotonous voice, the kind of drone heard when students are saying good morning to a teacher. You’re more suspicious today than you would usually be about her insistence to greet you.

She suppresses a chuckle, but instead of returning the sentiment, she leaves the area with a small wave.

You relax, but you know you’re not out of hot water yet. Her leaving has made it slightly cooler, but it’s still hot.

You can tell that Terezi really, _really_ does not want to be found out by anyone else, and you can understand that.

The bell rings without much warning, and you make your way to class.

On the way, you glance at Terezi. She flinches at every student you see and you accept that you’re going to have to hide her the best you can, even though people can’t see her anyway.

You get the feeling it’s going to be a long day.

\--

“Dave.”

You stir in your seat, but don’t look up. Sitting on a bench that is only occupied by the asses of yourself and John, you’re spread over the back of it, tired. Terezi stares down at you. A couple of periods previous to now you tried to introduce John to her as best you could, and following a few inexplicable incidents involving flying objects, he believed you. Or at least humoured you.

Making a noise of acknowledgement, you raise your head, looking her dead in the ice blue eyes, trying to convey that you’re not going to talk to her in public like this.

“You think things are going to work out?”

You shrug.

 _It’s the only way I can think of doing things,_ you think.

_As far as I can see._

You’re not sure, however, if you’re comfortable with being right. You don’t want to have to spend the rest of your life – or the span of time in which Terezi is actually with you – running and hiding and lying just to ward off a few curious, intellectual minds. You envision yourself _actually_ running away, moving to another fucking state just to protect her.

And, in the end, protect the both of you.

Because god knows what would actually happen to _you_ if she was found. You’d be pestered and interviewed and you’d hate that, _hate it_ so much that you’d probably be brain dead after a week of it.

 

“I don’t think there’s another way out,” you mutter.

You take another split second to observe the ribbons of bodies weaving through the corridor, before a voice is spoken over your shoulder.

“Who are you talking to?” 

It’s a familiar voice, the voice of a friend, and normally it wouldn’t affect you in the slightest but it’s the tone of it and the _knowingness_ that drips from it like poison, like a curse and you can’t help but let it send a shiver down your spine.

Rose Lalonde.

Rose _fucking_ Lalonde.

And you can’t help but spit out, “Since when were you involved in my daily business? I think you should go back to having a threeway with Maryam and some musty old classical romance,” and because it’s so rushed and hasty it _doesn’t sound like you_ and that just makes things worse.

Concern drips onto her voice, onto the knowingness, like alkali to neutralize the deadly acid working away at your bones and mind and bulletproof wall of paranoia, but you’re not quite in the green yet.

“Dave?”

“Talking to... my friend.”

You don’t want to have to lie to her. It would just be wasting your breath, because she _always_ finds out in the end anyway.

She smirks.

“Thank heavens. I’d have thought you’d gone mad, otherwise.”

You can’t see her face, but you can sense – almost _hear_ \- her brow crease, and you realise that she’s gotten it all figured out on her own.

“But where _is_ your ‘friend’, Dave?”

You’ve always hated dead ends.

And there’s no way to back out of this one. Unless you kick Rose in the shin and run away but that would get you nowhere at all, figuratively because she’ll find you again – because the world’s a little smaller than you want it to be – and literally because the snake of a crowd is moving about a centimetre a second and she’ll easily follow you.

Not that Rose Lalonde is likely to follow a guy like you.

You decide to approach said dead end and let it do its worst.

“She’s a ghost.”

Interest sparks in Rose, like the closing of a bear trap around every ounce of hope left in you.

“Oh, really?” The rhetorical question is punctuated by an inquisitive raise of an eyebrow and a tilt of her head. 

You’ve always hated it when she does that.

“Terezi, I assume?” She chuckles to herself. “ _This_ is something I must investigate.”

“You can’t.”

The look she gives you is bordering on confusion.

You know you can’t stop her, even though she’s your friend – or is supposed to be your friend – and friends are supposed to respect friends’ boundaries. Respect is something that Rose Lalonde knows well, but boundaries, unfortunately, are not her strong point.

Unexpectedly, she turns on her heel and walks back into the crowd. Dread curdles within you, twists like cement in a mixer and it’s thick streams of _it’s not over it’s not over_ and you have to stop to take a breath.

Terezi looks utterly speechless. She clearly doesn’t know whether to be scared or angry or confused and her static face is showing all of this.

You hate dead ends, but it’s your fault for entering the maze in the first place.


End file.
